PatBob- Wake Me Up When I'm Young
by Miles W
Summary: Squidward shouldn't care, but there's something odd going on between Patrick and SpongeBob, and he decides to investigate. Based on The SpongeBob Musical by Tina Landau and Kyle Jarrow. Pairing(s): PatBob; slight SquidBob.


**Sooooo not SpongeBob's POV like I promised. I'm working on it. This one's PatBob perceived from Squidward's POV (I still hate the cartoon but Squidward is the best character, and he was very fun to write). Also I love Gavin Lee (in my headcanon Squidward speaks in a British accent). Putting a mature filter on just for language, decided to write more from a grumpy old man perspective rather than the innocent-ish perspective of Patrick. So yeah a little more mature.**

 **Again, these one-shots aren't chapters, they're not in order, it's all episodic, I might just mention things from the other fic but it's a different story so they don't have to be read in order. Same universe though obviously. Based on the musical, so same thing, post-apocalyptic setting, blah blah.**

 **Fic belongs to me.**

 **SpongeBob Musical belongs to Kyle Jarrow (who wrote the book).**

 **SpongeBob © Nickelodeon.**

* * *

SpongeBob was late. Of all mornings he had to be late. Squidward paced back and forth like a nervous nanny. Mr. Krabs hadn't clocked in either yet, but that was usual for him. SpongeBob wouldn't get away with it if he came in after Krabs, and it would be Squidward's head for not delegating the fry cook properly. Dammit, where was he? Squidward was about to pick up the phone at the cash register to page SpongeBob, just when, speak of the devil, the very sponge himself walked through the doors of the Krusty Krab. But something wasn't right. He wasn't the yellow sponge Squidward knew. He had turned black overnight, covered in what appeared to be cinder. Squidward almost chewed him out for being so late but when he saw the fierce look in the whites of SpongeBob's eyes—basically the only features of his face he could see—the only words he could mutter were:

''Why're you all black?''

SpongeBob shook his head. ''If anyone asks, we were sweeping chimneys.'' Squidward —as sarcastic as he was—must've missed the sarcasm because he had a confused look on his face that suggested he didn't get the joke. ''Just go with it, Squid,'' SpongeBob snapped. He had no time to explain. Squidward shrunk away a little. He was used to barking orders, not being barked at, and though he wore an elephant's skin, it was a mere facade. He'd cow if SpongeBob raised his voice in anger. Even after all these years knowing him, he wasn't used to the kid blowing his top, which happened once in a Blue Moon, but when it did, Squidward hated to admit how frightened he was of the boy's wrath. Underneath that youth, naiveté and happiness, he had a hidden storm raging inside him, and Squidward was the unfortunate guinea pig who witnessed it the most, considering he had to work and live next to the yellow nightmare almost 24/7. Neptune Almighty, how did he ever get stuck with a freak show like that? His life certainly wasn't fine because SpongeBob was in it, and no matter what he did, he couldn't get rid of him. Move away? Tried it. Evict him from his home? Been there. Get fired? Done that. Get _him_ fired? He played every trick in the book, but there was no denying SpongeBob was a boomerang. You throw him as far as you can and he always swings back. Squidward told himself he'd eventually get used to SpongeBob, but he never could. He loathed every fibre of his being: from his squeaky shoes, down to the freckles on his arms, to that Godforsaken foghorn alarm every freakin' morning. Why couldn't he just—

''Hey, where're you going?'' Squidward demanded as he saw SpongeBob slowly trudge back out the doors. ''Oh no you don't, you little shit! Don't you turn your back on me! You're late, you just got here, and if you ain't here by the time Mr. Krabs gets here...are you even listening to me, you barnacle brain?'' He followed. He didn't want to, but he knew Krabs would grill his ass if he didn't have a logical explanation for the whereabouts of the fry cook. SpongeBob was halfway out the door when Squidward reluctantly grabbed his elbow—getting his hand all black in the process—and SpongeBob whirled around so fast that Squidward let go. He had sense enough not to get too close to an open flame and risk getting burned. What the Hell had gotten into him today? SpongeBob's eyes flashed, boring holes into what Squidward felt like his soul—like that imbecile could really see right through him—and without another word he left. Squidward didn't even realize he had been holding his breath for when the doors closed behind SpongeBob, he let out a deep sigh. His heart was pounding. Gosh, that boy scared him sometimes. And he felt the guilt rise within him, how ashamed he was to be frightened to death by a mere child.

* * *

Later that night, Squidward, who had to put in overtime for the lack of SpongeBob's presence that day at work, trudged home in annoyance. If he ever got his hands around that kid's throat, he was going to strangle him. What was with kids these days, anyway? No responsibility, no respect. Why, when he was SpongeBob's age—

He stopped then, spotting two figures coming down the road towards him. In all the fog and ash, it was difficult to decipher who they were, but they appeared to be a two-headed beast, as black as the night, tall and intimidating. Who in the world would be coming out here in the dead of night, in volcanic ash as bad as this? He didn't want to stay and find out. Squidward rushed to his side yard and hid behind his bushes, hoping the creature would pass. He watched carefully as it made its way to SpongeBob's house next to his and then he realized as the creature opened the door and the light from inside bathed them in a ''welcome home'' glow that it was just SpongeBob and Patrick. Squidward hoped they hadn't seen him, for he could kick himself silly by how cowardly he was sometimes. He watched as the two went inside. He noticed SpongeBob was still covered in ash, but he wasn't as black as he was this morning. What the heck was going on? Squidward thought about spying on his neighbors but then had to laugh. They were just a couple of stupid kids. He told himself he didn't care, their business was no affair of his, and he went inside his house, looking forward to a cold shower and a hot meal, probably would be his last anyway.

* * *

There was nothing on T.V. but the usual environmental bullshit. He didn't need an Asian man in a colorful suit and wearing too much hair gel to tell him about the active Mt. Humungous that would wipe out the town by tomorrow evening. He was sitting in the middle of this shit, breathing it in, eating it. Even with all the windows closed, the dust and ash seeped through the cracks of the windowsills, and under the door and through the vents that he tried to close off, to no use. Dust could squeeze through anywhere no matter how hard you tried to shut it out. He woke this morning with sand in his nose, his eyes, his mouth. It was even inside his clothes. Bikini Bottom was, as Sandy described, ''an undersea Dust Bowl'' and for once he had to agree with someone other than himself. He didn't care what anyone else was doing, but one thing he knew for certain. Tomorrow morning he was packing his bags and getting the fuck out of there. He didn't know where he'd go, but anywhere was better than this Hell hole. Bikini Bottom had always been a two-bit hick town and Squidward always said someday it'd go to the dogs. Well, that someday is now and no one believed him. Look who's laughing now, you idiots.

SpongeBob, that crazy bastard, was going to stay and tough it out. He somehow got it in his head that he'd go climb that mountain singlehandedly and stop the eruption. What a fool. Oh well, it was his funeral. And maybe the world could do without one less SpongeBob. As far as Squidward was concerned, the buffoon was doing him a favor by going and getting himself killed. 'Good riddance,' thought Squidward. 'I'm glad at any rate I never had snot-nosed brats of my own. Living next to him, I might as well have raised him—'

Wait, how old _was_ SpongeBob? Squidward realized he actually didn't know. He never bothered to ask because truthfully he didn't care. Well, he was old enough to live on his own, that was for certain, so he must've been at least twenty, maybe a little over that since he had known SpongeBob since the day he moved next door and started working at the Krusty Krab. Seemed liked yesterday but a considerable time had passed since then. Or maybe SpongeBob wasn't as young as he looked. Yes, that was it. He kept everyone guessing about his age, making everyone think he was a child. No, he was no child. To Squidward he was because he was at least twenty years his senior. But in all due respect, SpongeBob was a man disguised as a child and only then did it suddenly dawn on Squidward why the man-child frightened him so. He was not really innocent, only pretending to be. He saw that today. Oh, he could fool everyone but he couldn't fool Squidward. Child or no child, Squidward was convinced he was Pluto walking on earth. He had to be. Why else would he be covered in ash this morning unless he had risen from the underworld? Perhaps the volcano was his doing. Perhaps he came to Bikini Bottom, living amongst the rest of them, pretending to be their friend and neighbor, only to plant the seed of his children in that mountain to wipe out all humanity. Oh Neptune, Squidward, get a hold of yourself. Not even SpongeBob would be cunning enough to carry out such an elaborate scheme even if he _was_ Pluto, or Pluto's son or some demi-God, he was just too brainless for that. One way or another, Squidward was paranoid. 'Listen to yourself,' he thought, 'Speaking in riddles, talking nonsense of SpongeBob coming straight from Hell. You're watching too much T.V., Squiddy, Mama always said it rots your brain. C'mon now, go to bed, forget about it. Tomorrow you'll be out of this place. Away from Patrick, from Mt. Humungous, from the Krusty Krab, from Bikini Bottom, but most of all, you'll be away from SpongeBob.' Yes, sir. That volcano was a blessing in disguise.

* * *

As he was rubbing on his daily medicated moisturizer as he did every night right before bed—not like at his age it did any good, the soles of his feet were permanently cracked from his dancing days—he heard some loud, high-pitched chattering coming from next door. This was nothing new. But he certainly didn't tolerate it. He went to his window, opened it wide and stuck his head outside to scold those dunderheads. ''PATRICK! SPONGEBOB!'' he yelled. ''KEEP IT DOWN YOU NUMSKULLS! NORMAL PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!'' Immediately, the voices died down. He couldn't wait for the morning when he'd be finally rid of those two. He slammed the window shut and went to bed.

He awoke in the middle of the night to a sudden crash. He looked at his alarm clock on the end table. No, not even the middle of the night. It was four in the fucking morning. He heard the crash again, this time louder, and it seemed to be coming from right outside his bedroom window. More awake now, he leaped out of bed. No, could it be? A burglar, an intruder, at this time of night? He wouldn't be surprised if looters were running lose. After all, times were hard and getting harder, the world was falling apart, and the government's defences were weak. It was every man for himself. He grabbed the rifle he kept under his bed which belonged to his father when he used to go hunting and crept to his window. He heard the crash again—this time it seemed to come from above—and he fired the gun at his ceiling. It wasn't loaded. Nice going, Squidward. The crash came again but he realized it was coming not from his roof, but from next door. SpongeBob. _Of course._ Why should be surprised? He opened the window again. How many times would he have to scold those two? What in Davey Jone's locker could those two be doing at four in the morning? ''PATRICK, SPONGEBO-'' but he stopped when he saw all the lights in SpongeBob's house were off, and all the windows closed, save for a tiny light coming from downstairs. Squidward cursed under his breath, closed the window shut, and made his way downstairs and outside, making a beeline around his side yard towards SpongeBob's house, shotgun still in hand. Why was he going through all this trouble? But by Neptune, if he didn't get any sleep, he was going to kill those holy terrors. Maybe rotting in jail for voluntary manslaughter for the rest of his life would be better than co-existing between those lunatics. He wondered why he hadn't killed them sooner.

Full of piss and vinegar, he marched towards that light in SpongeBob's house, his only beacon in all that grey smoke. Holy shrimp, he should just go home and go back to bed. He couldn't see a damn thing out there, especially because now it was so dark. He stopped in his tracks, a few feet away from SpongeBob's window. He spotted two figures in the window, again, like a two-headed beast, only this time not blackened. No, this time, he could really see them. SpongeBob was no longer black, and he lay flat on his back, propped up on something, maybe a chair or a table, it was hard to tell, for Patrick was so large and blocking Squidward's view of most of everything. The only thing he could see of SpongeBob were his tiny fingers wrapped around the back of Patrick's neck. Were they playing or fighting? Squidward inched forward to get a closer look. No, now he saw. Patrick was on top of SpongeBob. Maybe they were wrestling, or doing that stupid Kung fu crap that SpongeBob and Sandy liked so much, but Squidward could have sworn that didn't appeal to Patrick. Wasn't ''their'' thing Jellyfishing? Whatever they were doing now, they sure as shit weren't Jellyfishing, but it didn't look like they were wrestling either. It was too tender in nature for that. What then, was that loud crash he heard? His question was soon answered when Patrick pressed his body harder on SpongeBob. The wood beneath them (from whatever they were laying on) cracked loudly from his weight. Squidward wouldn't be surprised if the furniture broke in two from the heaviness of that fat-ass. Squidward laughed to himself, but then stopped. Oh geez, maybe this was serious. Maybe Patrick was killing him! Squidward felt the color drain from his face. No way in Hell could SpongeBob survive being crushed to death by that over bloated starfish. He was no scrawny thing but he was little in comparison. Just then, Squidward panicked. If Patrick's intent was, indeed, to kill his best friend (for what reason, Squidward couldn't understand), SpongeBob would never survive. A few angry words must have been said, and now Patrick had snapped. That must have been what was happening.

Suddenly a little flash back rushed to Squidward's brain, of a moment he remembered when SpongeBob first moved in, and he witnessed the two of them playing in his front yard, only to end up in a shouting match seconds later. Patrick stormed off in a tantrum, and SpongeBob sat down at Squidward's doorstep and cried his heart out. Squidward didn't even know or care what they were fighting about, but when he came outside to tell SpongeBob to shut up and go home, he surprised himself by sympathizing when he saw the look on SpongeBob's face. He wasn't good at this. He didn't know how to act with kids. SpongeBob threw himself in Squidward's arms, craving comfort, and Squidward didn't know what else to do but pat him lightly on the top of his piss blonde hair—which was always sticking straight up like a young Rod Stewart—and only consoled, ''There, there,'' or something equally awful. It seemed to work because SpongeBob stopped crying. Squidward had the right mind to push him on home but instead let him stay for afternoon tea and biscuits (he didn't know a lot of young people who liked tea, but SpongeBob wasn't picky. He wasn't like other youngsters his age, he had an otherworldliness about him that Squidward expected to find in older, wiser folk. For that, Squidward preferred SpongeBob's company over the likes of Patrick. As annoying as hell as he was, he had his redeemable moments.) During which, Squidward sternly warned SpongeBob about Patrick: ''I know you've been friends since you were infants,'' said he, ''but you best be careful with that one, love.'' SpongeBob didn't know what Squidward meant, so Squidward continued on, ''He'll do what it takes to survive. He's temperamental and he's selfish. You overstep your bounds, there's no telling what he'll do. He doesn't know his own strength, you know.'' SpongeBob just laughed and brushed Squidward off. No, he said, Patrick wasn't dangerous. He didn't believe Squidward, no one ever did, but now look where it got him because he didn't listen: between a wood table and an obese predator.

Squidward grabbed the shotgun and, though it wasn't loaded (he couldn't remember, for the life of him, where he stashed the bullets anyway), he had some grand vision of marching through SpongeBob's house and beating the sea star over the skull with the butt of the rifle. He could save SpongeBob. He'd be a hero, and no one would ever call him a coward again. But wait. Why would he want to do that? Why would he want to save SpongeBob? Just awhile ago, he was basking in the pleasant, violent fantasies of SpongeBob jumping to his death in the mouth of the volcano. What difference did it make now if Patrick was doing the job instead? But maybe killing yourself and being killed were two different things. He didn't know what to do. If he went in there, Patrick would easily overpower him. He may have been a kid, but he was strong, stronger than Squidward would ever be. Squidward had no intentions of dying that night. He could call the police, but they wouldn't respond. They were too preoccupied with the volcano to worry about a neighborhood dispute. He couldn't just stand there! SpongeBob was in there, being suffocated to death by someone he regarded as a friend. Even SpongeBob didn't deserve to die that way.

He was about to grab a nearby rock and throw it through the window to at least create a diversion and buy himself some time—at least the noise would get that son of a bitch off the sponge—but he froze when he saw SpongeBob looking straight at him through the glass. Patrick tuned his body slightly and then he saw that the big guy wasn't compressing him to death. No, they were locked in an embrace, SpongeBob's legs around the other's hips, and their mouths were pressed together. Squidward wanted to say they were practicing CPR on each other but even he couldn't pretend to unsee what he was seeing. He'd have to be naive to set that aside. Patrick hadn't seen Squidward. His eyes were closed and he was still sloppily kissing SpongeBob with that ugly red mouth of his. But SpongeBob had stopped kissing Patrick back. He was just still as a deer, staring at Squidward. Finally, Squidward snapped out his trance. He felt sick, and tried to swallow back his vomit. He backed away into the shadows, out of the light. Maybe SpongeBob hadn't seen him.

He watched SpongeBob nudge Patrick and the other finally stopped kissing him. ''Patrick, did you see that?'' Squidward heard him say.

''See what?''

''I could've sworn,'' came SpongeBob's reply, ''That I just saw Squidward looking right at us.''

There was an awkward silence, then Patrick burst into a fit of giggles. SpongeBob wasn't laughing. ''C'mon, SpongeBob!'' he said. ''No one in their right mind would be out there in these conditions at this time of night! I'm sure your eyes were just playing tricks on you. Squidward's at home, in his bed, fast asleep.''

SpongeBob forced a laugh. ''Maybe you're right.'' Squidward continued to watch them until SpongeBob climbed off the table and went to the window to draw the blinds. A moment later, the lights went off and all was silent once more. Squidward couldn't move. He stayed frozen like that, out in that sand storm full of volcanic ash that was all in his hair now like a blanket of snow. He didn't know what he'd just seen, and by Neptune, he wish he hadn't.

* * *

Squidward didn't even remember going back home and getting back into bed. By morning, he was just sitting at the edge of the bed, in a daze, covered in ash, his hands folded between his skeletal knees. He hadn't slept all night. He didn't even remember going downstairs to make coffee, which he spilled all over his shirt with trembling hands. He walked to work like that, shirt stained, hair full of ash, forgetting he was to pack his bags that day and get out of town before sunset. Mr. Krabs looked up in surprise when he came in. ''What happened to you, boy? Ya look like death warned over,'' the stout, dark-skinned crab inquired in that Scottish accent of his. Squidward didn't even hear the question, he just walked zombie-like to his post. Mr. Krabs followed him and just looked Squidward over head to toe. ''We're closed today, Mr. Squidward. No use working when we're all going to die.'' Squidward didn't know if that was sarcasm or not.

''I forgot.'' Was all he said.

''You forgot? How can ye forget when we're living in an ocean hearth?''

Squidward didn't answer. He wish the old man would just piss off. Krabs always displayed a tendency of contempt for him, so why feign concern now? Mr. Krabs gave up then. If Squidward wanted to stand there all day, fine by him. He returned to his office just as SpongeBob entered. They froze, contemplating one another. Finally, SpongeBob bravely approached the register and said, ''Good morning.'' When Squidward didn't answer, he pointed out, ''You look terrible. Bags under your eyes.''

''What's it to you?'' Squidward said. ''Don't you got a mountain to climb?'' But he said it in such a way that came out more like a whisper. SpongeBob would have answered if Patrick hadn't interrupted them just then. Squidward couldn't bear to look at them, not while they were in the same room, and he fled to the kitchen. He could feel SpongeBob and Patrick's confused reactions even if he couldn't see them, and to no surprise, he heard them whispering, as if Squidward couldn't hear every word through the open kitchen window:

''He's acting really strange. I think I did see him last night. And he saw us, Pat,'' Squidward heard SpongeBob say.

''Just play dumb, then he'd think he was losing it,'' came Patrick's harsh response.

''No, Patrick. We can't do that to him. Squidward's our friend. Look, I'll just go talk to him, he'll understand.'' He heard a yelp of pain follow soon after that. Squidward supposed Patrick grabbed him too hard.

''Forget it!'' the sea star hissed through his teeth. ''Maybe if we're lucky we won't ever see him again!''

He assumed SpongeBob pulled away just then because he hissed back, ''We can't leave now, with the last memory Squidward has of us like that! He's gotta understand!''

Patrick must have left then because Squidward heard the swinging glass doors slam behind him. Squidward was startled Patrick didn't break the door. He would have escaped before SpongeBob came into the kitchen, but he couldn't make his legs stand up and go. He just stayed curled in a corner, his knees drawn to his chest. Why was he acting so foolish? He could face SpongeBob, he was harmless. SpongeBob just stared at him, then finally spoke.

''I'm sorry,'' was all he could say. ''But it's okay, Squiddy. Everything's gonna be okay now.''

No, he would not be talked down to like a child, especially not by another child. '' _You're_ sorry?'' Squidward snarled. ''Yeah, you should be! What the Hell do you think you're doing, anyhow, making out with Patrick? He's supposed to be your best friend!''

''He is.'' SpongeBob said quietly.

''No, best friends don't do that disgusting shit you were doing last night.''

''Why do you care? So Patrick and I are happy. Why is it any of your business?''

SpongeBob was bold. Even when Squidward grabbed him hard by the shoulders and shook him, he didn't flinch. He wasn't afraid. And his fearlessness caused Squidward to hate him more than he already did. He shoved SpongeBob hard against the wall. ''It is my business when the two of you are making so much racket, you'd wake up the whole neighborhood!''

''What neighborhood?'' SpongeBob shot back. ''There's only the three of us living on that one street.''

''Exactly!'' Squidward screamed at the top of his lungs. Either Mr. Krabs was deaf as he was blind, or he was pretending not to be oblivious to the argument taking place for he didn't even barge in to scold them as Squidward half expected him to do. But Squidward didn't care what passerby heard what he had to say at this point. He shook an angry fist under SpongeBob's nose. ''I've had to live between the two of you for Neptune-knows-how-long, and put up with all your bullshit, and I'm fucking sick of it!'' Squidward continued. ''You think I want to get involved? No, I'd rather pretend the two of you don't even exist, but that's getting harder every day! Just when I think I'm out, you guys pull me back in!'' SpongeBob didn't answer. He just glared, and Squidward had every urge to dig out those wide glittering eyes with a spoon. ''You know what? You're right, I don't care! Go get yourselves killed, at least you'll die together and you'll finally be out of my hair! I hope you're happy, SpongeBob. You deserve each other.'' But he didn't mean it as a blessing. Squidward's face was so close to the other's he spit the last word right between his eyes. SpongeBob wasn't _that_ stupid. He could take a hint. Without another word, SpongeBob left the kitchen without another glance back towards Squidward's direction. Squidward assumed just then that would be the last time he would ever see him.

* * *

At the end of the day, chaos erupted. Squidward wasn't fast enough. He had a suitcase in one hand with everything he could carry (he couldn't take all 400 self portraits, so he was forced to select his personal favorite), and he left his house like that wearing nothing but the clothes on his back. He knew SpongeBob had failed to stop the volcano from erupting when he saw clouds of grey snow envelope the entire sky. For all he knew, the stupid kid was already dead. But he didn't have time to rejoice or grieve. He was too preoccupied saving his own skin, and so it seemed, was everyone else. On his way out of Bikini Bottom, he accidentally bumped hard into Pearl Krabs and both their suitcases went flying. Where was her father? He had no time to ask her or reclaim his possessions, which were now mixed up with hers. In all the chaos and confusion, everyone scrambling around like trying to jump off the sinking _Titanic_ , he knew there was no excuse for rudeness. He amazed himself by helping her to her feet. ''There you are, I got ya, miss.'' She smiled slightly. She always laughed at his British accent, but this time, her smile seemed forced. She was so scared. She was just a kid. A _kid_. And so was SpongeBob, and Squidward felt a sudden pain in his chest of being so monstrous as to let that boy go to his death. Not just him, but Patrick, too. They were both too young to die, too young and stupid, thinking they'd save their town like heroes. They weren't heroes. How self-entitled kids were, and you wonder why they all ended up dead. Mr. Krabs joined them then and silently thanked Squidward for finding his daughter before they parted ways.

SpongeBob. He had to find him. He didn't know how, but he had to.

He felt the ground tremble violently, knocking him flat on his ass. Moments afterwards, the volcano erupted, sending dense plumes of gas and ash high into the sky. He thought he was dead, but he was still breathing. He supposed other people had died in the first explosion, perhaps there was more unaccounted for. He got down on the ground, as low as he could go, and covered the back of his neck with his hands. That's what they told him to do in school in case of an atomic bomb attack. He didn't know if it'd worked for a volcano, but he might as well try. He stayed like that until he assumed it was safe. He got up and was met with a horrible sight: bodies everywhere in an ash-covered town, some people alive and injured, others clearly dead. He didn't have time to look at who had lived and who had died. He just had to find SpongeBob. He ran past people and houses hit with volcanic rocks and boulders, some people had burn injuries so gruesome, he didn't recognize their faces. He tried not to inhale the hot air, as he knew it would kill him. He took off his shirt and covered his nose and mouth as best as he could. His skin stung, and he knew he had been burned a little. He regretted not leaving sooner, or at least, buying the gas mask as the Mayor instructed when he still could. But he didn't plan on sticking around. Now, it was too late.

He journeyed to the summit of Mt. Humungous. No one was here. He had to be quick in case the blasted volcano erupted again. He called out SpongeBob's name, and Patrick's. Was Sandy with them? He didn't even know. He called her name, too, just in case. Maybe the three of them had fallen in, consumed by lava, burned alive. Squidward had to double over and let out his lunch. The thought of dying in such a way made him ill. While making his way to the bottom of the summit, he accidentally tripped over what he first thought was debris. He almost kicked it in anger until he realized it wasn't rock. It was a body! A person! Someone was dead or alive. Squidward got down on his knees. The body was so black, he couldn't tell if it was SpongeBob, Patrick, or Sandy. He put out a hand—which was burnt and bloody—and cautiously touched the body's back or chest, it was hard to tell. No, it was a male. Not Sandy. And the body was thin (although if Patrick had been burnt through the bone, he wouldn't have been as heavy as he was when he was alive). Squidward had to vomit again. When his sickness passed, he tried hard to wipe away the ash from the body. No, the body wasn't burned to the bone. There was flesh beneath the soot, and though badly burned, at least there was skin, not a bloody mess. He couldn't see the face but when he was able to dust him off, he saw the sweater vest, the yellow sweater vest—more brown now—that only belonged to one person he knew.

His heart sank. No, he didn't hate him that much. He didn't hate him enough to want to see him get killed. Slowly, he took SpongeBob in his arms, cradled him on his lap like Mary did Jesus when he came off the cross, but the boy hung lifelessly like a rag doll. Squidward touched his hands. Though he was burned, his hands were cold. Cold as ice. Was he dead? Just then, Squidward did something he never thought he would do: he prayed. He wasn't pious or spiritual, but he prayed to a higher power to let the kid live to see another birthday, at least let him grow old enough to reach Squidward's age. It wasn't fair that he should end his life so young, no matter how horrible the world was. Squidward remembered being young once, and happy and full of life. He wasn't always so bitter. Age wears you down, he couldn't help it. He remembered he didn't want to die at SpongeBob's age. When you're that age, you think you're invincible, that you'll live forever, that you'll never die, that you'll never grow as old as Squidward was now. He was only 45, but he felt a thousand years older. To a 20-something-year-old that was ancient. Squidward didn't even know he was crying. Why was he crying? Even he didn't know. For SpongeBob? No. That wasn't it. He was crying for himself. Crying for the childhood lost, the innocence nevermore. He would never be young again, perhaps never be happy again. SpongeBob, that idiot, took his life for granted, thought he had nothing to lose. No, he was wrong. He had everything to lose. You only get to live life once, you're only young once, and the dumb child threw it all away. For what? A hillbilly town like this. That's why he hated SpongeBob. He was a shadow of Squidward's former self, and he both hated and loved him more than he could bear. And like that, Squidward wept so hard he didn't even notice the rain. He wept over the boy, his tears spilling down his long nose and onto those delicate little eyes that would never open again.

Squidward was so preoccupied wallowing in self pity that he didn't even notice SpongeBob's eyelids begin to flicker ever so slightly.

Fin


End file.
